


Dodger

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Curious Rumpel, Developing Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Magic, Manipulation, Porn with Feelings, down and out Killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: Gold offers a small spell to give Killian some relief when he's fallen upon hard times, and the kindness opens other doors.





	1. Chapter 1

It hadn’t taken long for Storybrooke to catch on to Killian Jones. With appalling rapidity, he went from being something of a mysterious, dark menace; Cora’s right-hand man; to something of a two-bit hustler. A joke. He wasn’t taken seriously, or at his word. His tales were tall; everyone knew. Swan’s face, Nolan’s… all were patiently indulgent, until patience wore thin. They knew he was a born liar… he lied habitually, even when he didn’t have to.

Feeling backed into a corner, squeamishly ashamed, Killian thought, _damn it_.

He couldn’t change. He’d tried… long before landing in a place so picturesque as Storybrooke. Over and over, he would think, _I’ll get it right, this time_. He wouldn’t make shit up. He wouldn’t boast of family he didn’t have, or wealth he didn’t possess. He wouldn’t _boast_. Nor would he fall into a pattern of preying on others… glomming on for a meal, a place to sleep. There were those who tolerated such behavior for a time, dazzled by his looks and charm, holding onto hopes that whatever _big plans_ he spoke of were true; would come to fruition.

Even then, Killian could see the doubt, the question in the eyes of those he seduced. It made him anxious, sometimes doubling over with cramping pains in his belly. Trying to hang on, to blind the eyes of those who might judge him, he fucked his chosen mark with the furor of a legion of Don Juans, Casanovas. He tried to be the thing most needed, in the blood. For so long, he’d aimed to be what another might want… he had no idea who he was.

Well. Storybrooke was small, with a mostly enforced magical policy of _no one gets in, no one gets out_. But for the odd, say, pothole that yawns into a portal. They’d ferreted him out, they _knew_. Killian had a sort of horror of talk… talk in the town, those he’d bedded, or more or less stolen from comparing notes. He felt the talk on the back of his neck, and his anxiety escalated; belly aches and weak moments, near tears. This was the time when he would usually move on. Long before this, in fact. What kept his stomach free from crippling pain was being seen as … more than he was. A strong man, a devil-may-care man. A man who rescued maidens and cared for them, proper.

Instead, it was more like he rescued maidens and then extorted a price for his services, without so many words and indefinitely. The town had marked him as a gutter rat, a gigolo and a hollow man, coasting by on his looks. A user… of people, of whatever chased emptiness away.

They knew, and he couldn’t fucking leave. He holed up in the depths of the Jolly Roger, rocked in the harbor and shaking with discomfort… the discomfort of being alone with himself, of being looked at by others. Exposure, which included the highlights of both laughter and pity, as well as the expected anger.

He drank. He tried to calm himself, but had no experience in such things. It was his habit to find others who would calm him. It was how he had survived, all on his own. First a missing mother, then a father, finally, a brother. His need to be held, to escape himself in sex… it was enormous. Calm had never come from within; storms came from within. Sex had seldom been as simple as pleasure, release. It meant, for a brief moment, being saved from himself.

 

 

Gold was surprised to find sympathy within himself. Very surprised. At first, seeing the haunted look in the pirate’s eyes, he felt a smug pleasure. Poor, wee, friendless lad. He observed at a distance, practicing the self-control of his new persona. No dancing around, no giggling… which, no doubt, would startle his fellow townsmen.

He’d smiled to himself, for it was no more than the whelp deserved. Let him be seen as the little scrap of nothing he was. The mongrel, snuffling after the crumbs of others. It was just.

It was then that the surprising sympathy kicked in. Gold knew, all too well, what it was to be looked down upon. To be judged, and come up lacking in the eyes of others. To be painted as less than they. The initial pleasure he took in Killian’s exposure was gradually replaced by a resurgence of his distaste for the town. The hypocrites and heroes… faeries as nuns and witches as mayors. Who were they, to kick a beat-down dog? Who were they to judge, all of them filled with secrets. Weakness.

He knew if his powers waned, they would turn on him in heartbeat.

He offered a simple remedy. A small magic, to give Killian some relief. Smiling in an unpleasant way, he suggested that Killian write down the names of those who troubled him so, and Gold would pop the list into the freezer.

Killian, in the murky shop, looked at him with a small measure of disbelief. “That’s… magic?” he asked, his brow attaining a bit of its old-time charm; a wicked little raise, curved and rakehell. “That sounds absurd, mate.”

“Aye. It will work, nonetheless.”

“And… do what? What happens to the people on the list?”

Sweet. The lad had a concern for those who watched him in his downward spiral, shaking their heads. So certain it would never be them.

With a shrug, Gold said, “Nothing, dearie. It simply keeps you out of their awareness. In their eyes, you’ll only be Killian… not whatever labels you currently find yourself weighted under. It eases the pressure. Do you want it?”

Killian’s eyes said _yes_ , yes, that was something he badly wanted. A lack of visibility. “What’s the price, Gold?”

“For this little bit of glitter? Nothing. I won’t even think on the list, once it’s planted.”

“There’s always a price. Isn’t that what you say?”

Gold smiled. He crooked his finger and motioned for Killian to come near. Killian was hesitant, puzzled, but he leaned in close, and Gold pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Oh, he was full of surprises. He stored the touch away, rum-ghosted breath and soft scratch of chapped lips, a prickling of glossy facial hair. These things might weave into a more significant magic, at some point.

He waited for Killian to jerk back, offended by a crocodile kiss. The lad only hovered there, eyes at half-mast, waiting. Leaning back, quiet and filled with a strange triumph, Gold said, “There you go, dearie. You’ve paid.”

Another look of disbelief. Another scoundrel brow. He was a consummate actor, the pirate, and yet rather transparent. With a nod, he took up Gold’s pen and began writing names down on paper.

 

 

 

 

Alone, now in a habit of hiding out, Killian thought about it. He couldn’t make a mark of Gold… that much was clear. Even if not already exposed, Gold would see right through him.

…. But the temptation was strong, the instinct. To be under the protection of someone as wealthy, as _powerful_ as Gold… to have won his favor, if that’s what had happened, was a heady thing. It was unexpected, to say the least; a twist in the wretched plot of Killian’s life. He ran hungry fingers over the twist, he felt it up, looking for possibilities.

Eventually, he let go of seeking to manipulate, and simply _felt_. What did he feel? In part, a wakeful thrill… a monster had touched its lips to his. Was he horrified? Was he surprised to find the demon lacking in awfulness? Or was that an illusion? He knew himself to be desperate… it might be coloring his perception.

He’d followed Gold to the back of his Little Shop of Horrors, and Gold was all business. If he wanted more than the small kiss; a thimble, Peter Pan would call it; he didn’t show it. It was as if the moment had never happened. Killian watched him fold the list of names in a peculiar way, and briefly hold it between the palms of his hands. There was a sudden scent of honey, approaching rain. It dissipated almost at once, and Gold opened a freezer door… in went the list.

The smile on his face was wry; he understood the silliness. “It’s a cheap magic.” He’d admitted. “But no less effective for being cheap. You won’t be further troubled by those on your list.”

It was true. The demon was long since called out as being as big a liar as Killian, but _those_ lies were complex. Clever, interwoven and loaded with the appallingly high stakes of a devout gambler.  Yet he’d told Killian the truth. People on the street simply nodded, or were otherwise busy with their own lives. From the station, Emma waved. Crossing the street, Archie saluted with his umbrella.

Killian, in shock, engaged with no one. He returned polite nods, waves. The relief of it was… profound. Weight was lifted, easing a tension of self-loathing that had become so heavy, he’d grown ill. He’d grown weak, breathing his own, toxic air.

He was just another one of them… perhaps of no real consequence, but neither was he singled out, a pariah. He was a townsman, walking down the street. No more.

 

He couldn’t stay away from Gold. The honey scent that surfaced with Gold’s magic, his ‘little bit of glitter’, drew Killian like the scents of a bakery; hot ovens and the rising of sweet dough. The storm scent, not unlike the pull of the sea, snared him from within the Jolly Roger. It was the same pull, but it wasn’t iodine and saline, the noise of wave and wind. It was a swelling, pregnant scent, a siren call of moon and an opening-up of earth. Killian felt rather like a zombie, returning to its master… snuffling down the street, nose to the shifting air, feeling his way back.

“You again.” Gold observed.

“Truer words, mate.” For, in many ways, it _was_ him again. Killian felt more centered, solid within himself.

“More names for the list, have we?”

No. Killian shook his head, a little doggy. He couldn’t think of a single reason to be back in Gold’s shop… to loiter here, amongst the honey and rain, as he was doing.

Gold didn’t press. He seemed busy with something, and – genuinely curious – Killian saw that he worked magic. Shadows in the shop gathered; the winking of crystals hanging in the window seemed far-off.

A tiny cyclone was formed between Gold’s hands, and he moved it about, his top hand in a slow rotation. Killian stared, craving pastries of buttery layers, soft explosions of powdered sugar. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Not lifting his eyes, Gold said, “Working, dearie.”

“Aye. But what is it you work?”

“None of your concern.”

Killian felt a bit of a pout coming on, and endeavored not to show it. Why had Gold shown him a kindness? Why had he taken a _kiss_ as payment? It seemed he couldn’t be less interested in Killian’s presence…. He was merely a nuisance. Underfoot in a busy kitchen.

Obstinate, he asked, “Why did you help me, Crocodile?”

For a time, Gold said nothing. He worked his spell, and it dragged on so that Killian thought his presence might be forgotten. He was rather entranced, watching. The cyclone moved through a spectrum of colors, and when it was an almost unknowable shade; not violet, not indigo; Gold tamed it into a glass dome. Within the casing, its spiraling slowed. It was lazy, bent at its spout. Every so often it put out sparks. The scent of honey, very sweet and yet elusive, sly, teased about Killian’s head.

Brushing his hands together, shaking off magic, Gold regarded him. “I know those people.” He said. “I know what it is to live _beneath_ them… to not be one of them.”

Killian considered. So, it was Gold’s own experience, then, that led to the kindness. . The freezer. Not necessarily a new feeling towards Killian. Testing, he lowered his head, dark bangs falling in a crow’s fringe over his forehead. 

He peered up at Gold from that stance, so accustomed to his actions, he didn’t even think about them. His body knew certain behaviors that won him cookies, favors. Kisses. He practiced them by rote.

Gold smiled, then chuckled. Shaking his head, he turned back to whatever intricate web of ensorcellment he was crating, opening a book of gigantic proportions and odd smells. Foliage was pressed between waxed pages. Drawings were many, and obscurely frightening.

“You can’t make your play on _me_ , dearie.” Gold said, still smiling.

Killian blushed. A peacock desire gripped him; he wanted to show himself off and receive praise. Pausing in his perusal of the spell-book, Gold assessed him. “Come here.” He said, voice soft. Killian, cursing himself, hopped to. He hurried to obey; chop-chop.

Standing beside Gold, he saw the book more clearly…. Detailed, pen and ink renderings of beetles, shells… a paper pocket of blue-jay feathers and satin ribbon. There was a fingerprint, a thumbprint, in the bottom corner of the dusty page, and Gold said, “Place your thumb here, Killian.”

Though he was warming to notions of Gold as Fagin to his Oliver; or, more accurately, to his Artful Dodger; he faltered. _It’s a demon_ , he reminded himself. A demon in his little den of magic, whipping up something secret and born of the Dark One’s power. It was beginning to seem possible that he might want to make another payment on his list, but he was less certain about assisting in this manner.

“Oh, _now_ you have second thoughts.” Gold observed. “Don’t fret, love. I just need a place holder. Think of it as holding the ribbon in place while I tie the knot. The work is done; I’m only sealing it.”

With a small incline of his head, Killian said, “But I don’t know what you’ve worked. What I might help to seal.”

“Nor will you.” Gold said. “But it will cause no more ripple than your list.”

Killian still felt hesitant, but then Gold was holding his wrist. A broad-paned thumb encircled the bones of his wrist, fingers lined up in the warmth of his palm. It was startling, and he was suddenly aware of scenting Gold; the warmth of fire, wood-smoke. The sweetness and storm of magic.

“Alright, dearie?” Gold cocked a brow at him, a bird-like glance.

Killian nodded, his blush intensified and his breath a little shallow. He allowed his hand to be guided to the page, and shivered to feel the caress of fingertips at his palm. Pressing his thumb to the print, Gold’s thumb caressed over his own. Little sparks, heat he could feel, leapt where he pressed.

With a sigh, Gold said, “Thank you, dearie.”

 

 

 

Gold began to see things about Killian that had previously escaped his notice. He’d long seen the swashbuckler. Perhaps not heroic, in the white-horse sense… but brave, adventurous. A darkly handsome lad with a quick smile and a smart mouth, making himself at ease in almost any crowd.

Now he could see that, in part, it was a costume. Given the overblown persona, the boy should swagger. He should strut, shoulders rolling, long legs dominating. He did not. There was an uncertainty about Killian, a hesitance. From his height, he was often looking down, listening for cues. His walk had purpose, but not swagger. He was shy about the hook; his arms hung strangely, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Both in anger and in simple nervousness, his jaw clenched and flexed. In those moments, he avoided eye contact.

It was summoning up a different picture for Gold; so different from the scoundrel, the robber-groom he’d assumed. He saw an almost shocking depth of vulnerability. One of the pirate’s eyes was a little bigger than the other… nothing truly noteworthy; it didn’t seem to mar his pretty-boy looks. But it stood out to Gold, now, and was peculiar. The vulnerability seemed to shine through it.

Killian looked at him, watched him work, and the larger eye, sea-storm blue, was an opening. It played havoc with a pensive, considering set of the pirate’s mouth, with his posture of waiting; the stored energy of broad shoulders and tensed hips. It worked within these elements, its own spell.

Killian was more quiet, now. Lingering in Gold’s shop, he could still be quick to smile. He could sass. But he was more quiet, considering. And this was fine, Gold thought. The world was full of noise; it came from all directions. There was much noise, little truth.

 

 

 

Gold arrived at Granny’s, only to see Killian, sharing a booth with Belle. His blood froze. The two were cozied in one side of the booth, Killian turned towards Belle, his hook-arm on the back of the seat. Chillingly proprietary. He leaned down, perhaps telling a joke, his fingers and thumb at his chin. His smile was devilry.

Alarmingly, Belle was suffused with a pretty blush, the manner of which Gold hadn’t seen since she was his maid and he was green. Her shoulders hunched forward, lips tucked between her teeth. She repressed laughter… she blushed.

He would kill the fucking pirate. The blackguard, fuckhead-halfwit. He would rip out his throat. He would throw the list of names on the fire and incite wicked violence. Sick, Gold turned on his heel and left.

Only moments later, Killian’s fast foot-fall, heavy boots, clamored up behind. “Wait, mate.”

Gold didn’t wait. “I’m not your mate, dearie.”

“ _Wait_.” Killian placed his hand on Gold’s shoulder, and Gold rounded on him, snarl showing bottom teeth. _Oh, wrong move_ , he thought.

“Are you devoted _absolutely_ to idiocy?” he growled.

Killian looked uncertain as to how to answer. Livid, Gold held up a gloved hand, clenching his fist and turning his hand at the wrist. Abruptly, Killian struggled for breath. Tendons stood out at his neck, and an invisible force drove him backwards, fighting, into an alley. Gold followed, and – unlike the hapless boy – he swaggered.

“What is it you think you’re doing?” he asked, but – of course – Killian couldn’t answer. His body slammed up against a brick wall, leaves in an uproar of skittering about his black boots.

The hand that manipulated magic was unsatisfied. Coming up quickly, Gold encircled it around Killian’s neck and gave a constricting squeeze. Killian stopped fidgeting… his body went a bit limp. His struggle ceased, his eyes at half-mast as he looked at Gold. It toyed with Gold, coloring his anger, giving it a different flavor.

“Are you so set on getting my attention, pirate?” He let his leather gloved thumb stroke over Killian’s jugular, and felt the jump at the pulse. Killian, like Belle, blushed.

Experimenting, Gold loosened the magic, only a little. Killian breathed with more ease, but was still immobilized. Gold again caressed with his thumb, and Killian’s breath came in a rush. Voice thick, he said, “We were only talking. I was waiting for _you_.”

“Aye? Why is that, dearie?”

Killian wouldn’t answer. His blue eyes blazed, and Gold was struck with how different Killian’s blue was from Belle’s…. One of them such a vast, open landscape, the promise there clear, crystalline. The other troubled, dark with storms; the wider eye like a wound, the limp of an injured animal, marking it as prey. The eye played a game with the hook, the missing hand, so that Gold saw the pirate’s vulnerability afresh.

Squeezing at Killian’s throat, he said, “This doesn’t make you entirely unhappy. Does it?”

The pirate still was not speaking. His well-formed chin lifted, a defiant note, but his lips remained parted. His pulse was like a minnow beneath Gold’s thumb.

Using his teeth, Gold pulled the leather glove from his free hand and spat it to the ground. Hand bared, he placed it to Killian’s crotch. Yes, there it was… Gold smiled; the proof was in the pudding, as was said. Blood will out, and in various ways. He felt the hard ridge of the pirate’s cock, trapped between hip and thigh, roused to a feverish throb.

… And by what? Feeling pleased in a surprised way, a brief laugh escaped Gold’s lips as he met Killian’s eyes. He grasped the firm bulge, a squeezing fondle, and felt Killian’s breath escalate. The pirate’s heart knocked about within its cage, an enticement all on its own. His blush intensified, and Gold suddenly wanted to see _all_ the effects of Killian’s blood. He wanted Killian’s body bared, to show where he flushed, where he tensed. He wanted to see the shape and color of the thing pulsing in his hand, and play with the revelation that it responded to a harsh sort of treatment. He laughed again, a soft and smoky sound, and Killian’s eyes closed.

“I suppose you _were_ trying to get my attention.” Gold mused.

Hips beginning a subtle press, a rocking against Gold’s hand, Killian whispered, “Aye.”

“It never occurred to you, did it, to write _me_ into your list of names.”

Killian’s eyes opened, clearly startled. No, it had never occurred to him. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. Gold smiled; softer, more true. His hand began working buttons on Killian’s trousers, and Killian’s breath arrested. His breath was held, but his heartbeat pounded faster, a panicked bird, and Gold felt heat wash over him. A wave, it came off the pirate. His own arousal was intruding upon his game, a fiery path down the center of his body. He ignored it, and reached into the hot tenting of loosened trousers. He felt absurdly turned on by the soft tickling of hair, wolfish fur, and the unsurprising, un-decorous realization that Killian was bare beneath the snug trousers. The cock had leaked a wet path at the juncture of hip and thigh… Gold felt his cock throb in kind, responding, in sympathy, to Killian. He got his fingers slippery-wet with the pre-come, redolent of saline-touched, soft greens, briny water and something ticklish and peppery, and pulled the angsty thing from Killian’s pants. Before indulging the lad with touch, he let it fall, looking down at it.

It bounced. It was a tortured looking thing, red and raw and shiny-tipped. Full and textured with veins, standing out in relief… it bounced and then stood up, out, as if reaching. Gold gave it a soft slap and watched it bounce again. Killian gasped, hips jerking.

“Very nice.” Gold murmured. “Aren’t you precious? Precious.”

Killian’s eyes were slits, the blue a dark spark, barely seen. His pelvis jutted out, hipbones sculpted and almost heartbreaking, revealed by the open trousers. Gold played with the sheer furriness of the pirate, petting the soft, dark hair on Killian’s belly, at his groin. In a tease, he played his fingertips at Killian’s inner thigh. Reaching low, he tickled heavy balls, and Killian moaned… perhaps a little too loudly for the relatively public setting.

“Mmm… hush, now.” Gold said.

For a few, brief moments, he held the cock in his slicked palm and stroked. He pumped, a hard drive to the purpose of coming, and Killian was all hitched breath and whimpering gasps. His body was tense, his face and neck darkened with blood, hips flexed. The tops of his muscled thighs trembled. Gold could feel when Killian was ready to burst, to spill over. The feeling came off the pirate like a crisis, a catastrophe, and the small, semi-enclosure of the alley grew thick with a scent of musk-rose and burnt cinnamon. The brine melted into fire, Killian’s mouth wide open, tongue glistening behind his bottom row of teeth, body a wire between Gold’s two hands, pulled taut. The heat of his body was fierce.

Cruelty stole over Gold, and as the sound of a storm filled his head, he let go with both hands. Shocked, as if slapped rudely from a dream, Killian sucked in a gasp that was also a whine. A mewl. He slumped against the wall, eyes open and blazing at Gold.

Gold smiled. What an appealing picture Killian made… pale and ruddy flesh, framed by dark leather. Blue eyes flashing from dark shadow. Trousers to thighs, the angry, desperate bobbing of a greedy cock, exposed to light and air.

He bent to retrieve his discarded glove, met Killian’s eyes, then turned to leave the alley. At Killian’s strangled sound of disbelief, Gold gave a sardonic glance over his shoulder. “I’m certain you don’t need _me_ to conclude this business, dearie.”

Outside of the sphere of heat, made by bodies and angst, the air was cold. Killian’s cock was oblivious, a rude specter, making its presence aggressively known. His eyes, open to Gold, looked to be on the verge of tears, his face troubled and stormy. He was devastating.

“Don’t leave me like this. You bloody bastard.” He panted. Pouted.

Well. If he was going to be boorish. Gold flashed a grin and left.


	2. Chapter 2

Killian was _pissed_. Too pissed, really, for anything like coherent thought. The Croc was a mental bitch and nothing made any fucking sense… this was the extent of his thinking.

As much as he wanted, _needed_ the release Gold was leading him towards, he couldn’t continue once alone in the alley. In Gold’s absence, he grew more aware of the alarmingly open location, the possibility of exposure. The last thing he needed was for the denizens of Storybrooke to find him, helpless to his needs, furtively lurking with dick in hand.

Shuddering, blushing with both anger and horrified shame, he shoved his cock, evidently undaunted by the turn of events – the idiot – back into his trousers and buttoned-up. It hurt. It made a show of itself, a prominent bulge, just to the left of a struggling row of buttons. There was a sense it might spring free of the buttons, pop out, a surprising and lewd Jack-in-the-Box.

Jaw clenched, Killian untucked his dark shirt and let it hang, wondering why none of his parts had the least bit of sense. No sense at all…. None in his brains, none to speak of in his blood, and certainly there was nothing overly intelligent about the creature in his trousers. It got him into more shite than he cared to think on.

It occurred to him, a brief and ill-advised thought, to take out his angst on Belle. _Oh, clever_. He rolled his eyes at himself, feeling something in the neighborhood of schizophrenia as his insides squirmed and argued. _Yes. Go try and seduce Belle. That’ll make it all better_.

In truth, even if Gold was not part of the equation, Killian would never regard Belle as a mark… and certainly not as an _easy_ mark. It was true, she had something of a novice air… he could entertain notions of a blushing virgin, getting eagerly wet under the attentions of a handsome devil. But there was the daunting fact of her eyes, the set of her jaw. She often seemed to see in a way that discarded bullshit and recognized truth. It was more targeted, even, than Emma. Frankly, Killian didn’t know how Gold could stand it. Truly. A man so filled with secrets and lies, plots and agendas. A man who had taken a thimble-kiss from him, and then played with him in an alley… How could such a man bear the scrutiny of Belle’s gaze?

The trick to having marginal intelligence was to ignore the urgent press of his body. It was a regular thing, his body agitating him with messages of distress. _Feed me, fuck me, hide me, shelter me_. ( _Kiss me, praise me, want me, adore me.)_

Killian dismissed the target of Belle, an obvious and desperate plea for the worst sort of attention, and walked blindly through town.

He would go to his ship. He would _not_ go to the befrigged _shop_. Stupid shop. Bloody Gold, with his ancient toys and accidents of magic, piling up and bedeviling everything. Lurking and skulking in shadows, whiling away the time at a spinning wheel, like a little old lady. With his little old lady handkerchiefs and prissy demeanor… _I’ll not sully my hands with you_. Except, of course, he _had_ sullied at least one hand.

Maybe he would go to the Rabbit Hole. If nothing else, for a stiff drink. And surely there was _someone_ in the little town he hadn’t pissed off or put-off… someone who might take pity on his damaged blood, to say nothing of his brains. His racing mind, anxious and intolerable.

Another shudder took him, with ungentle force. He didn’t want those things… things that were so habitual, that kept him always on the run. The next fix, the next comfort. The next little oubliette of thoughtless bliss, shutting out the truth that the thoughts, the _alone_ would reappear, and with even more baggage. Perhaps more names to put on ice.

Did Gold have a list, he suddenly wondered? Did he have a list of names, bespelled and tucked into the freezer? Was Killian on the list?

He came to a point. He was walking blindly, shirt-tail flapping behind, arms hugging his chest for the cold, head ducked. From the corner where he stood, he saw Gold’s shop. Its little “open” sign somehow managed to appear smug. Visions came upon him, each more quickly than the last.

He would stroll into the shop, loose the loaded gun from his trousers and shove it down Gold’s throat. He would enter the shop, fall to his knees and beg for kisses and cock. He would enter the shop, and a benevolent, magical guardian, previously missing from his existence, would place the Dark One’s dagger in his hands. He would have the power, and make Gold do whatever he wished. He could make him pirouette in a bloody tutu, should he so choose.

He would enter the shop, and burst into confused and frustrated tears.

The last option seemed, mortifyingly, the most likely. With an internal flinch, Killian rejected the shop. He swiveled on his booted heel, and with no idea of where he was headed, he pressed on.

 

 

 

 

Starlings were on the move when Gold went home. In a twilight sky, a growing darkness that yet glowed with pale, coral light, they formed clouds; ocean waves. A unified flock, they made buildings, cities; knocking then down and rebuilding, over and over.

It was only their nature, a part of the natural world… the pull of their blood, individuality sacrificed for the whole. And yet it made Gold feel strange. For a time he stood in the clearing of his home, watching the birds form tidal waves, cyclones… a path like an arcing Milky Way, a Wild Hunt. They made great, undulating sea creatures that died in a sudden dispersing, only to regenerate.

He felt Killian’s presence in his house.

 

 

 

Gold leaned on the doorframe of his bedroom, arms folded across his chest, considering. Killian was on his bed, staring back at him with an outlandish combination of stubbornness and hope. The drama of the alley came back t Gold in a tactile way, and he was surprised to feel himself blush.

“So. A lock-pick, then. In addition to other admirable qualities.”

The pirate was bare-chested and barefoot, a display of belonging exactly where he was. His certainty, or at least his commitment to his cause was a little breathtaking. Gold’s eyes took a slow survey of the length of man, the brand of masculinity that had invaded his home and bed. He wasn’t displeased.

Even so. Presumptuous whelp. Uncouth thug. “What do you want, Killian?” he asked, gruff. Impatient.

“You’re the clever one, mate. Figure it out.”

Oh _ho_.

Gold entered his bedroom, sliding his jacket from his shoulders. He took his time; hanging up jacket and tie, toeing off shoes. He took sneaky glances at Killian, rather fascinated by the swirling patterns of dark hair laying over torso and abdomen…. By the bony feet emerging from dark trousers, high arched and somehow very naked. He looked hungry, a skinny wolf. Even snug to his body, the waistband of his leather trousers had a little give where a lean, taut belly met. The pirate’s hand lay on the bed, palm up, fingers curled… possibly supplicant. The hook was an awkward note on his other side.

He watched Killian’s eyes track him, a path of blue that was both ocean-cold and hotly needy. He wanted to laugh. He couldn’t imagine there was anything exciting going on about his person, certainly not his _body_ ; but Killian watched him unbutton a few buttons at his collar, at his wrists. He watched as Gold rolled up his shirt sleeves a few turns, the feeling of hunger coming from him like heat from a furnace.

Killian’s pretty mouth… Gold risked a moment of hard staring, a loss of composure. Killian’s lips were ruddy, a contrast to his crow-dark hair, the dark growth along his jaw. His upper lip was a pleasing bow, the bottom lip a fulsome pout. When Gold took off his belt, Killian’s lips parted. His chest rose and fell. It was dizzyingly seductive.

Turning his back on the power of it, the sheer, animal force, he hung up his belt in his closet. Tidy, organized; ironically, rows of hooks. Belts and ties, pretty maids…. It was very outside of the raw attraction of Killian’s chaos.

Untucking his shirt, he looked back to the bed. His hands came to his hips, fingers in a loose curl. “Hungry?” he asked.

“Aye.” Killian’s soft purr left little doubt as to the nature of his hunger, but Gold wasn’t ready to indulge it. He spoke of more basic matters.

“Come to the kitchen, then.” He quirked a little smile at the confusion on Killian’s face. Crossing the room, he added, “Coming?”

“I… “Killian faltered. “…. Why?”

“I’m offering to feed you, you idiot. You look like you need it. Interested?”

He left the room, feeling as if he dropped a trail of bread crumbs as he went. Eventually, Killian followed, padding along on bare feet. It was pleasing, in a bizarre way. Almost comforting. A struggling animal was in his house, following him about with a warmth of fur and a curious muzzle. Gold almost expected the clicking of wolf-toenails on the hardwood floor. Killian presented a doggy air of caution, as if uncertain whether he’d be beaten or cared for.

Gold felt uncertain on this account, as well. He felt a little twitchy. But Killian settled at a kitchen table… and watched. Gold gave a little brow lift, then turned his attention to dinner. The creation of which, after all, was not unlike spell-craft.

 

 

 

 

As was typical, Gold was being cavalier. _Rumpelstiltskin_ , Killian said to himself. He wanted to get down to bare-bones, to strip away costumes. This man was the Dark One, who was Rumpelstiltskin, with whom he had a tangled and bloody past. Gold… his suits, his comfortable house… it was all surface. Gold’s _control_ was surface, for neither the frightened man nor the reckless, maniacal demon had ever possessed such control.

Killian was learning; he found it be a slow and painful process. Beneath the fine clothes and sardonic expression, havoc was wrought. He could _feel_ it, if not quite see it. He realized he’d been waiting… he’d been holding his breath, waiting to see what Rumpelstiltskin would do. Would he be accepted? Was he wanted? Was he, at all, needed?

The alley changed things; he no longer could stand to wait.

He felt more clear headed than he had in a long while. He was seeing certain realities, long taken for granted… yet, for a time, he’d forgotten. Physically, he out-matched Rumpelstiltskin. He was taller, more broad of shoulder and muscular of arm. Beneath his pelt-like layer of hair, his belly was a lean ripple of hard muscle.

In terms of actual power; the Dark One’s magic; such stuff as bone and muscle meant little. Perhaps even in the face of cleverness… Rumpelstiltskin’s long game and plot. But it meant something to Rumpelstiltskin, Killian had become sure. It meant a great deal to him to have ownership of Killian’s carnal brawn… to have dominion over him. Also, Killian could see plainly, Rumpelstiltskin was attracted to it…. to his body, his looks.

It was something of a revelation. It was simple… a knowledge of self he’d long used and exploited with others, but he’s forgotten it in the presence of Rumpelstiltskin. Even kisses, the hectic touching of skin couldn’t erase the contempt hat rolled off the Croc. He maintained an on-top air, affording him a stare down his long and affronted nose.

Killian was no longer convinced.

He watched Rumpelstiltskin move about the kitchen, a little chilly in his half-bared state. His shoulders were hunched, bare heels pressed to the chair rung, his knees wide apart. How strange it was to not only realize the attraction he held for Rumpelstiltskin, but also to realize the extent of his own attraction. It was significant. His eyes followed the flexing of planed muscle in Rumpelstiltskin’s forearms, skin so seldom seen bared. He felt nearly undone simply to witness a casual loosening take place. The open collar, the untucked shirt… Rumpelstiltskin’s feet were unexpectedly flashy… socks a deep blue and vivid lavender stripe. Killian had a strong thought of a witch in striped stockings, Rumpelstiltskin's nose played to this image, tending to her cauldron. A bubble of a snort blurted out, and he coughed a bit, trying to disguise it.

Rumpelstiltskin gave a look over his shoulder. “Alright, dearie?” Killian nodded, the force of attraction hitting him again… a silvering of sideburns, the wing-like way Rumpelstiltskin’s hair fell, shadowing deeply hooded eyes. His expression was thoughtful, almost dreamy as he tended a skillet. Or cauldron, whatever. Maybe he was be-spelling the food, so that – soon enough – Killian would find himself running the vacuum, decked out in a filly, French maid’s outfit.

Bloody hell.

 

 

 

 

Rumpelstiltskin watched Killian eat. Mushroom and cheese omelette, potatoes diced and fried with green pepper and onion… the kitchen took on a pleasing, greasy-spoon scent that felt warm. Killian was a little barbaric, his left arm heavily on the table, hook braced to plate as his fork shoved food about. He ate quietly, eyes cast down and brow intense. So, he _was_ hungry, Rumpelstiltskin thought.

Watching him, bare-chested at the table, continued the sense that a large animal had taken up residence in his home. He entertained notions of getting Killian a food and water bowl; perhaps a collar.

But, no. The pirate wasn’t exactly domestic, though Rumpelstiltskin suspected he’d reached a point where regular meals and a warm bed would go a long way towards domestication. Wildness could become wearisome, as he well knew. It could make you tired, longing for a deep sleep in a warm, secluded nest.

 

 

What the devil is going on, here, Killian wondered? On the one hand, he was rather comfortable. Rumpelstiltskin’s cozy, little “cottage” was really a wealth of dark wood and stained glass, more than one fireplace crackling merrily, throughout the house. The scent of wood smoke was lulling and somehow nostalgic. His belly was filled, and – an amusing note – it turned out the Croc was a fair cook.

But on the other hook… it was not the course he had foreseen. He’d thought there would either be sex or fighting, maybe both. Either way, his body was amped-up and ready, an antsy adrenaline at war with the cordial atmosphere Rumpelstiltskin seemed to be creating. The strange and alien feeling of _nurture_ was making him jumpy in his own skin. He tensed and worried over a false sense of security, over spells that made one complacent and mild. He wondered if he would wake from a pleasant dream, hog-tied and gagged in some dank, forgotten cellar.

… It wouldn’t be the first time.

From the list with its thimble-kiss payment to the strained heat of the alley… and now _this_. Fucking hell, the Croc was lighting a _pipe_. Like he was bleeding _Merlin_ , settling in for an evening of psychedelic reverie and casual shamanism. Killian had a sudden horror he might be asked to beat upon a drum. The smoke of the pipe, a heavy scent of roses and chocolate, was lulling as well. Killian was suspicious of magic cavorting all around, invisibly weaving about his body, whispering to him to _trust_ … and, perhaps, to doze for awhile.

He hadn’t come for sleep. Or for food, though he was glad for it. He watched the utterly bizarre spectacle of lounging Croc for a time…. hunkered into a wing chair and, yes, blowing smoke rings. Was this the man Belle knew? When Rumpelstiltskin’s dark eyes met his, his pulse leapt. If a spell was at work, it faltered in the urgency of Killian’s blood, easily kindled to life.

He rose from his own chair, crossed the small space between them, and for a moment, he stood before Rumpelstiltskin. He looked down, nervous and twitchy to be so close, watching Rumpelstiltskin’s upturned face.

“What is it, dearie?” Rumpelstiltskin set the pipe aside.

Impulsively, Killian sank to his knees, settling between the open sprawl of Rumpelstiltskin’s legs. His arms rose, hand braced to one well-clad thigh, hook resting on the other. Rumpelstiltskin glanced to both hand and hook, then met Killian’s eyes. He smiled.

“It’s an odd proposal, this thing that’s been happening between us.” He said.

“Aye.” Killian did not disagree. But he _wanted_. The scent that had lured him from the docks, along sidewalks… it befuddled his senses. Honey and storms. His right hand squeezed, then stroked up and down Rumpelstiltskin’s thigh, feeling the tense and flex of muscle. Rumpelstiltskin continued to watch him.

He asked, “Are you offering yourself, dearie… your body… in exchange for; what? Money? Care?”

Killian felt an inward flinch. Yes and no, was the answer. The things the Croc could offer were needed, but could likely be found elsewhere. What he wanted was acceptance. He wanted to be unburdened of a need to lie and pretend. He wanted this man to _want_ him.

“If you need to make a deal of it, Croc… I suppose that could sum it up. But… I just want…” 

In frustration, Killian took one of Rumpelstiltskin’s hands and brought it to his face. His jaw was warmly cupped, long fingers moving into his hair, and he released a breath, closing his eyes. Cat-like, he nuzzled to the hand, turning his head to kiss the palm.

Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t always been a wealthy man, wielding magic, playing at being civilized and cultured. His palm was rough, a bit reddened; callused beneath his forefinger and at the heel. Dizzy with the honey scent, the scent of sweet tobacco, Killian pressed his lips softly, feeling his way. He felt Rumpelstiltskin’s fingers flex, heard the intake of his breath. A beating of wings that had taken hold, just beneath Killian’s sternum, settled down at last.

Leaning forward, Rumpelstiltskin brought both hand into play… he held Killian’s face, the back of his head, and his mouth came to Killian’s. What Killian felt was pure relief… before a tease of tongue, a shock to the blood, what he felt was the sagging of his body against the chair, against the frame of Rumpelstiltskin’s thighs. His mouth opened and relief poured into him. It was the feeling of a released sob, long held back; but what came out was a moan. The low, hurtful sound of a wounded animal. Something hot, maybe dangerous, surging to the forefront, Rumpelstiltskin embraced Killian and pulled him up, pulled him close. Killian found himself straddling the Croc’s lap, wrapped up in a feverish, writhing embrace, voluptuous with need; with desperation.

 

 

 

It happened so quickly. There was almost nothing in the way of foreplay… only kissing, the connection at mouth, like breath. There was a realization of _contact_ , Killian on Rumpelstiltskin’s lap, so firmly pressed against him, wolfy and warm.

But Rumpelstiltskin was hungry, much more so than he’d realized, to get _inside_. Killian wanted him that way… he wanted to be taken; to be mastered, held down and fucked.

In the rush, the hurry, it had been awkward at first. Hurtful. More than from pleasure, Killian gritted his teeth with mild pain, gasps sharp and harsh… but he pressed Rumpelstiltskin to keep going. _Don’t stop_. At some point, it became luscious.

A rhythm was struck, the right amount of slickness achieved; muscles tensed and relaxed in time with blood and breath; heightened pleasure was nearly maddening. Rumpelstiltskin watched Killian, beneath him, on his belly. Both arms hugged around a pillow. The bed creaked and moaned like a ship, the headboard banging noisily to the wall. Killian’s legs were spread wide apart, his hips tilted back, and Rumpelstiltskin made a fast, hard pistoning.

With every thrust, every rocking of the bed, Killian breathed out, a harsh moan. Rumpelstiltskin watched his pretty profile, head pressed to the pillow he hugged. Eyes closed, sooty eyelashes against his cheek, mouth open. He looked both tense and blissful. A blush colored his cheeks, his lips; it put off heat between his shoulder blades. Straining upward, Killian met Rumpelstiltskin’s mouth, and the moment became a suspense of agonized, melting pleasure. Both a rush and yet a feeling Rumpelstiltskin tried to prolong, draw out.

His arm moved around Killian, hand encircling his neck. Mouths locked; the kiss was wet, heat-seeking, lapping tongues; it was shared breath and filled with a swelling, an aching of moans. Rumpelstiltskin’s hips thrust, the rhythm sweet and sustained, and Killian whispered, “ _Fuck me! Yes, fuck me_!”

Was it possible for bone and muscle to be any more punishing? It _was_ possible for blood… Rumpelstiltskin’s hips responded to the plea with a spasmodic volley of thrusts, a growl in his chest. He saw red, his face enveloped in heat, desire clouding his thoughts and vision.

Killian’s voice pitched anew, gasping, helpless cries, puppy-like and needy, coming from his open mouth. Rumpelstiltskin felt the squeeze around his cock, more muscular, aggressively demanding than what he’d felt, all along. He sucked in his breath through clenched teeth, balls tight and pulsing, his spine a line of fire… a prickling of heat that radiated from tailbone to skull.

“ _I’m coming_!” Killian gasped in his puppy voice, the voice of his undoing. His hips bucked back against Rumpelstiltskin, the squeeze almost unbearable, and then Rumpelstiltskin was coming, too. His voice was almost a roar. He bit down on Killian’s shoulder, losing all sense or thought of _self_ , his body emptying, pumping into Killian’s. Logic, reason was gone. He _bit_ , his body sealed his pelvis, flush to Killian, and something animal in his blood said _you’re mine_. He’d claimed ownership. His come flooded into Killian, mating him.

Everything was different, now.

 

 

 

 

Storybrooke didn’t really know what to make of the pairing. They weren’t even certain there was a pairing, per se; yet Killian Jones and Gold seemed to nearly always be together. Vague thoughts formed about liars and scoundrels, strange bedfellows. But, in truth, many of them couldn’t seem to hang onto any real malice. Two men in black walked into their thoughts, one standing a head taller and yet oddly complacent; the other all suppressed swagger. Questions formed, but drifted away, their import lost. They thought, instead, that it was unseasonably chilly. They dressed in layers.

Killian smiled at them, a devilishly charming smile, and they smiled back without considering. He passed them by, head clear and body strong. He was fed, his belly didn’t hurt. He followed a scent of baking, sweet butter, sugar and fire, to Rumpelstiltskin’s shop. He felt calm.

 

THE END

 

 


End file.
